


To Get Used by You

by the_rat_wins



Series: All the Right Moves [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dancer Stiles, Hypnotism, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Male Lactation, Mind Control, Podfic Available, Pole Dancing, Watersports, but definitely Chaotic Neutral Stiles, minor Bloodplay, not quite Evil Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Laura would kill you if she knew you were hiring strippers," Derek said, looking at the website Peter had pulled up.</p><p>Originally inspired by <a href="http://stilesederek.tumblr.com/post/51537080047/someone-please/">this post and (NSFW) video</a> of an awesome male pole dancer. (ETA: That post has been deleted, alas! <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9d4AhF11POg">Here's the YouTube link (NSFW)</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Get Used by You

**Author's Note:**

> The talented Jinxy has now done [a great podfic of this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/890288/)!
> 
> Please read the warnings and tags, and see the notes at the end for details if you are concerned.

"Laura would kill you if she knew you were hiring strippers," Derek said, looking at the website Peter had pulled up.  
  
"Please. These people are pole dancers, Derek. They're athletes. Artists. Just because you can't appreciate—"  
  
"They're in their _underwear_ , Peter. It's not—"  
  
"Not what?" His uncle raised an eyebrow.  
  
"It's not . . . professional," he muttered.  
  
Peter clapped him on the shoulder as he shut the laptop. "And that, my dear nephew, is why I am in charge of closing the merger while Laura is in the Philippines. You have a certain lack of style that's unbecoming in our industry. Professionalism isn't what a person does. It's how they do it. And these people"—he smiled and tapped his fingers against the closed computer—"are consummate professionals."  
  
Derek checked his phone. The latest interview for Laura's new assistant was in ten minutes. Usually he'd be dreading it, but compared to dealing with Peter's newest stunt, it was actually starting to look like a good escape. "Peter, I have to go." He paused. "Be sure to tell Laura I had nothing to do with this, before she rips your throat out."  
  
"Will do!" Peter called after him. "Be sure to thank me, when you see them!"  
  
\---  
  
He hated when Peter was right.  
  
The woman who had just finished her routine to wild applause was in no way a stripper, and the acrobatics she'd pulled looked like something out of Cirque de Soliel, except instead of a wild costume and crazy face paint, she had on a plain black Lycra top and shorts, with her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. The music, the lighting, and the routine had all been impressive, understated, and tasteful.  
  
Peter leaned forward over the CEO sitting at the table beside him, and tapped Derek's shoulder. "Professionalism," he said smugly, and lifted a glass. Derek glowered.  
  
The woman was leaving the low stage, exchanging a subtle high-five with her—colleague? Coworker? Fellow pole person?—a tall, lean boy in a matching pair of black shorts, who was waiting to take his turn. He didn't have a shirt on, but the sense of finely tuned athleticism was the same. He cracked his neck, stretched out his arms in front of him.  
  
Derek's eyes ran down his back, and lower, looking at the way his pale skin contrasted sharply with the black shorts—they'd looked normal on the woman, like workout gear almost, but somehow, on him, they looked—Derek shifted uncomfortably, tried to pull his eyes away, but then the music started. And he couldn't.  
  
For the first few notes, the dancer was just walking slowly up the couple of stairs to the stage. Then, as the guitar line repeated, he gripped the pole and pulled his body up off the ground effortlessly in a long, slow spin. One leg was raised and bent, like a ballet pose, pulling the shorts tight across his hips and ass. The spin went on and on, but instead of sliding closer the ground, it seemed like he was floating, suspended, unearthly.  
  
Derek was transfixed, watching the dancer's body move around the pole. He slowly straightened both legs out in front of him, splaying them apart in a split, then bent one back to hook an ankle around the pole. Slower than seemed possible, he lowered himself almost to the ground, his back to the audience, and then slid his knees apart, pulling the fabric of his shorts tight again, showing off the curve of his ass. One arm rested against the pole above his head, and Derek wanted to run a hand up the uninterrupted line of his back . . .  
  
He shook his head dazedly for a second, trying to clear it. But the dancer pulled himself up to do another long, smooth slide down the pole, and this time when he got to the bottom, he was facing the audience, and as he spread his legs open in invitation, he locked eyes with Derek.  
  
A shock of arousal, barely contained until now, shuddered through him. He could hear his own pulse quickening, and feel his cock hardening as the boy's mouth lifted a little in a smile. It was electric, uncontainable, like nothing he'd ever felt just from watching someone move. He couldn't pull his eyes away, but after a second, the boy leaned back and pulled himself up, raising his legs over his head in almost a headstand, one foot braced against the pole.  
  
With every new movement the dancer made, all Derek could see was that lithe body moving against his, spread open on a bed, unconstrained, arching up toward him, arms wrapping around him, pulling him down. He could feel his mouth had fallen open a little, trying to breath steadily. His eyes were still fixed on the stage in front of him, half-closed with the intensity of the images pouring through him.  
  
It seemed to go on and on. He had forgotten about Peter, about the CEO at the table next to him. Every so often the boy would look up at him again, sometimes a coy look through his lashes, sometimes—when he spread his legs, or thrust his hips forward—with a daring light in his eyes.  
  
Derek shifted a little in his seat, feeling his cock rubbing softly, wetly against the fabric of his briefs.  
  
The music was fading out, and the boy's movements slowly came to a stop, with him kneeling behind the pole, one arm still reaching up. As the last note of the music died away, applause filled the room, and the boy stood, took a mocking little bow, and smiled. Shot a look at Derek. Then turned and walked off the stage, through an open door to the side.  
  
The applause ended, and the buzz of conversation rose up around him. "I . . . have to go," Derek heard himself saying as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.  
  
"Derek!" Peter called after him, sounding genuinely confused. "Derek, what are you—Derek!" He reached out and grabbed for Derek's arm, but Derek pulled away without a backward glance.  
  
The door had closed behind the boy when he left, but Derek pushed it blindly open.  
  
It led out into a small carpeted hallway with a water fountain and two bathroom doors. The female dancer had changed into street clothes, and was holding a duffel bag, leaning against the wall and tapping away at her phone. When she heard the door click shut, she looked up at Derek, startled. The boy was nowhere in sight.  
  
"Mr. Hale?" she said after a second. "Are you—I mean, you look—are you OK?" She sounded concerned.  
  
"The other one," he said, and was distantly surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was like hearing a recording. Everything was distant and fuzzy.  
  
"You mean Stiles?" she said. "He's getting changed in the bathroom. He'll be out in a—" Derek brushed past her into the bathroom, and pushed the door shut.  
  
Stiles had already changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, and was sitting on the counter between two sinks, leaning back, his legs a little apart. Waiting.  
  
Derek felt himself breathe out with relief at finally being so close. He took two steps forward, and leaned into Stiles, pushing between his legs, burying his face against Stiles's neck and scenting him. Sweat, the fading traces of some artificial body spray, the tang of metal from the pole he had been rubbing himself against. A confused rush of herbs and oils, but no gun smell, no overwhelming bitterness of wolfsbane. _Not a hunter_ , noted a distant, still-functioning part of his brain. S _omething strange. But not a hunter._ He let out a small moan, then mouthed desperately at Stiles's skin.  
  
"Hey there," Stiles said quietly, a little amused. One of his hands came up to bury itself in Derek's hair, and Derek felt himself push against Stiles's body in response. "Sorry about that, Mr. Hale. It's Derek, right? Sorry about that, Derek. I, uh, wasn't actually trying to put you under, up there. I save that for the masses, generally. Random audience members, humans, Omegas. Drunk nobodies. People who won't remember."  
  
His hand slid down to Derek's jaw, and he pulled Derek's head away for a moment, looking into his face, studying him.  
  
"It shouldn't have done anything to you," he murmured. "You must be desperate for it, huh?"  
  
Derek's eyes closed as he pushed into Stiles's hand, trying to get closer again.  
  
"Wow," Stiles said wonderingly. "If I just . . ." He slid his other hand down and cupped Derek's cock, and Derek jerked hard against him and came, groaning and burying his nose in the crook of Stiles's shoulder again.  
  
"Holy shit," Stiles said. "Well, that's just a waste, isn't it?"  
  
Derek's mind had cleared a little when he came, but he still felt muzzy and strange, and he didn't know what Stiles was talking about.  
  
"I want you," he mumbled. That seemed like the only really important thing right now. Stiles needed to know. "I want to be in you."  
  
"Yeah, I kinda got that," Stiles said. "Well, good news, Derek. We can make that happen. Something for you, and something for me, all right?"  
  
\---  
  
The cab ride to Stiles's apartment was hazy and confused. He remembered feeling tired and heavy all of a sudden, and Stiles let him lie down. His head was buried in Stiles's lap, and when he turned, he could nuzzle down against Stiles's half-hard cock. That felt good. It smelled good, too, spicy and warm, the smell of sex and sweat and Stiles, all mixed together. He breathed in happily and heard Stiles laughing above him.  
  
"What is your deal, dude?" he said, but he pulled Derek's head closer, and arched up with a quiet moan. Encouraged, Derek pressed his open mouth against the denim and licked. Stiles nudged him away when he felt that, and Derek subsided, content to just push his nose close and sniff deeply.  
  
"Werewolves are so fucking weird," Stiles said under his breath, but Derek didn't mind.  
  
When the cab stopped, Stiles practically had to haul him out. Derek's limbs felt loose and warm, and it was so good to have Stiles's body pressed against his. He felt his cock begin to stir again, slick against the wet mess in his jeans, and he groaned.  
  
"Yeah, buddy, I know," said Stiles. "Come on, just one flight, OK?" He took Derek's hand and led him slowly up the stairs. Being so close to him but barely touching him was difficult. Derek tried to press against him from behind, but Stiles just laughed and walked faster, skipping stairs with his long legs. "C'mon, Derek," he murmured.  
  
The apartment was dark, only a little moonlight spilling in through the windows, but Stiles didn't turn on any of the lights, just tugged Derek into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.  
  
The smell of herbs and oils that Derek had picked up earlier was strong in here, almost overwhelming. But that didn't matter. There was nothing actively dangerous to him. Now that Stiles was finally still, Derek wrapped his arms around his waist and nuzzled into his neck. Stiles made a quiet, approving noise, but turned in Derek's arms and pushed him down by his shoulders until they both fell back onto the bed behind them.  
  
That was good. Stiles's weight was now pressing him down into Derek, and Derek could grind his cock up against Stiles's hip. Stiles was shifting around on top of him, pulling his arms up above them on the bed, but none of that mattered, if he could just press a little harder, get a little closer.  
  
There was a quiet _click_ , and then another. Stiles let go of Derek's arms, but they stayed pulled up above his head.  
  
"Nothing personal," Stiles whispered. "You just don't seem to have much control at the moment, and I need both hands free. You get it. Or you would. If you were, you know, thinking." Then he pushed himself upright, and off the bed. Derek strained against the handcuffs for a second, trying to get closer to him, but Stiles ignored him, walking to the corner of the room and flicking on a lamp. It spread a warm yellow glow over the room, and Derek turned to see what Stiles was doing.  
  
Up against the wall was a long workbench covered with plants, small glass vials of liquids, boxes with handwritten labels, and piles of paper. The strange oil-herb smell was coming from there, and Stiles was leaning down and picking up a tray of the empty vials. He paused for a minute, then also reached for a bigger glass bottle filled with some kind of clear oil. He carried it all over to the small bedside table, and started lining everything up.  
  
"What are you doing?" Derek said, and the words were slurred, indistinct. It was hard to focus when he could feel his pulse beating out of control, his whole body trembling.  
  
Stiles smiled, but didn't look at him.  
  
"You're a mage, aren't you?" Derek tried again, but it was a struggle to get the words out, to even form the idea. "What're you going to do?"  
  
Stiles's eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Derek sharply.  
  
"I prefer magic user. More professional sounding." He turned away, and walked back to the workbench, picking up a small Swiss army knife and flicking it open. He climbed onto the bed, straddled Derek, and started unbuttoning Derek's shirt.  
  
"My blood?" Derek asked, trying to stay cogent, to not whimper at the touch of those long-fingered hands. "Is that what you want?"  
  
"Blood? Derek, please, give me some credit." Stiles's eyes were wide and mischievous. "We can do way, way better than that. We're going to get _everything_. Or close enough. Everything useful." He pushed back Derek's shirt and used the knife to cut open his undershirt, then ran his hands over Derek's chest, pinched his nipples, leaned down and licked each of them, slowly.  
  
He put his mouth next to Derek's ear and whispered, "And the best part is, you're going to come out of it alive. That's what makes me _so awesome_ , Derek. I take what I need, and everyone's happy afterward. It's catch and release." He paused, leaned back on his heels, and grinned at Derek. "Except most people don't fuck the fish, I guess."  
  
Stiles leaned over and snagged one of the glass vials off the table. "It's funny, I wasn't even trying to catch you tonight. You kinda . . . jumped right into my net. But hey, I'm not complaining. Are you?"  
  
Moving down Derek's body with the glass vial in one hand and the knife in the other, he pressed a kiss right below Derek's stomach. "Don't come yet, OK?" he whispered against his skin. "We're going to make you work for it." Then he sliced a thin line into Derek's side and held the glass vial under the cut, catching the blood. It healed so quickly, Derek didn't even feel it, just let out a quiet breath as he watched Stiles screw the lid onto the bottle and put it on the table.  
  
"That's the easy one. Werewolf blood doesn't do much, really. You guys bleed way too often for it to be valuable." Stiles reached down and unzipped Derek's pants deftly, careful not to touch him. Then he slid off the bed and pulled them off entirely, along with his briefs, still sticky from before. Derek's cock was red, wet, and swollen. The warm air in the room felt like a caress, and he thrust his hips up, searching.  
  
Stiles casually stripped off his own T-shirt and jeans, and the black shorts he had worn at the party. After he had crawled back onto the bed and straddled Derek again, he dipped his fingers in the open bottle of clear oil, one at a time. Then he reached back and slipped a finger inside himself. Derek's cock jerked, untouched, as if he could feel Stiles's tight, hot hole around him.  
  
"Chill out, dude," Stiles said sharply. "I told you, you can't come yet."  
  
Derek tipped his head to the side and moaned, thrusting up as much as he could, searching for Stiles's warmth.  
  
"Hey!" Stiles grabbed his face with his left hand, forced Derek to face him. His eyes were a burning light brown, catching the light of the lamp in the corner. Derek stared up at him, dazed. "Wait. Until. I'm ready." He let go, and Derek nodded, feeling the room move dizzily around him with the motion. "Good." Stiles braced his free hand on Derek's chest, and arched back as he slipped another finger in, his eyes closed. The smell of the oil, sharp and somehow cold, filled Derek's nose.  
  
"You're running hot, even for a werewolf," Stiles murmured. "It's gonna feel good. It's gonna feel _so good_. Fuck!" His cock was hard now, rubbing against Derek's stomach and leaving little smears of wetness. Derek wanted to get his mouth on it, to lick up Stiles's sweat and precome, but he couldn't move. "Fuck," Stiles hissed again, then reached back and lightly held Derek's cock, slowly rubbing it over and around his hole, teasing himself with it. His hole was soft and slick, and Derek could feel the promise of heat inside.  
  
"OK," Stiles said finally, and guided Derek's cock against him with two fingers, until just the head slipped inside.  
  
Derek cried out, and there was a howl in it, too. His heart was beating out of control, blood rushing, and he could feel the shift starting. Stiles threw his head back and laughed, exhilarated, and then impaled himself fully on Derek's cock.  
  
"Feel that, Derek?" he said. He clenched around Derek convulsively. "I'm not even going to have to move. You're going to give it all to me. Just like this. Aren't you?"  
  
Derek nodded frantically, and nudged his hips up, tried to bury himself just a little farther inside, just a little deeper in Stiles.  
  
"Good," Stiles said. He ran his hands absently over Derek's face, dragged his fingers over his mouth, across his fangs, then down Derek's chest, petting him.  
  
"Come on, Derek." Each squeeze around his cock caused him to jerk, pushing out small spurts of precome into Stiles's hole, _not enough, not enough_.  
  
Stiles smiled and hummed quietly above him. "Derek," he said in a sing-song voice. "Don't you want to come in me?"  
  
"Yes," Derek mumbled, and tried to fuck farther into him, but he was already snugged in tight against Stiles's body, his balls pressed to Stiles's ass.  
  
Stiles let out a sigh, and then slowly raised himself up, Derek's cock sliding out of him inch by inch. Then he lowered himself back down, enveloping Derek in burning heat, and just as he closed around the base of Derek's dick, he whispered, "Come."  
  
Derek felt it pulsing out of him almost gently, in wave after shuddering wave. It seemed to go on and on, Stiles milking him with soft, inexorable pressure.  
  
"Good," he said, over and over again. "So good, Derek."  
  
After a few minutes, he could feel his own come all around his dick, spilling out of Stiles and slicking the skin between them. With another little sigh, Stiles let Derek slip out of him, then rolled over to lie ass-up on the bed beside Derek. He pressed the fingers of one hand into his hole, wincing a little, and reached for the bedside table with the other. Grabbing one of the glass vials, he let the come run out of him into the bottle.  
  
"Awesome," he breathed. "This is so awesome, Derek." It filled the vial to the top, and spilled over. Stiles reached for the lid and screwed it shut, wiping the filled vial clean on the sheets, then gently throwing it onto the table.  
  
"You did so good for me," Derek heard him say, as he felt himself drifting. A little pulse of pleasure went through him at the praise. There were gentle fingers scratching his scalp, and everything felt muffled and far away.  
  
\---  
  
When he woke, his head was clearer than it had been for most of the night. His arms were free of the cuffs, and lay loose next to his sides. The lamp was off again, but there was a predawn grayness stealing in through the window.  
  
Stiles was leaning against the workbench, unashamedly naked, watching Derek.  
  
"Can you stand up on your own?" he asked quietly.  
  
Derek stretched his legs, but it was slow, like he was trying to move underwater. Words seemed like too much effort, so he shook his head, then closed his eyes again as the movement made the room spin around him.  
  
He heard Stiles leave the room and go to the sink in the kitchen, running water into a glass. Then he felt the bed dip behind him, and Stiles's hand on his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. The water glass, damp with condensation, was pressed to his lips. He felt feverish and weak, but the water seemed like too much somehow. He turned away.  
  
Stiles guided his head back. "You have to drink, Derek. C'mon, open your mouth."  
  
He obediently parted his lips, and the water trickled in.  
  
"Don't choke yourself," Stiles said, amused, as Derek started to gulp the water down. "Is that enough?"  
  
"More." His voice was raspy.  
  
Stiles ran his fingers across Derek's forehead, smoothing back his sweaty hair. Then he got up, refilled the glass, and let Derek drink it down, his head finally falling back against the pillow.  
  
There was a soft clinking sound: Stiles picking up one of the vials, unscrewing the lid.  
  
"Derek, I'm going to help you up, OK?" His voice sounded calm, but Derek could hear a note of suppressed excitement or nervousness. "Can you get up for me?" He was sliding a hand under Derek's shoulder, and Derek obligingly tried to push himself up, letting Stiles's arm loop underneath his. Between the two of them, they managed to get him sitting up. The room was spinning again, but Stiles was steady against him as he started to stand, his legs wobbly and weak.  
  
"It's only across the room. Just one foot in front of the other, OK, buddy?" Stiles said, encouraging.  
  
When they stopped, Derek opened his eyes, squinting. White tile floor, and a sink and mirror in the corner. The lights were off, but he could see the combined shape of him and Stiles reflected a little.  
  
Stiles was behind him now, steadying him with hands on his hips. Derek could feel the brush of his cock, soft and warm, against his ass, but he was too tired for anything but a muted burst of arousal in his stomach. Stiles's nose was brushing against his neck, as though he could scent him the way a wolf would. Derek could feel the whisper of Stiles's breath against his skin, hear the quickening sound of his pulse.  
  
One of Stiles's hands slid down to curl around Derek's cock, stroking a little with his thumb. The other pressed gently but firmly right below his stomach.  
  
Derek lost control and let out a moan at the unexpected stream of piss. He could feel his muscles clenching desperately. The demands of his body were almost too strong, but after a long moment, he managed to stop himself.  
  
"Stiles—what—?" he mumbled. Stiles shushed him, his hand rubbing little circles, and then pressing down again sharply.  
  
Derek cried out, and couldn't stop this time. But Stiles was guiding him, murmuring words of praise and nonsense into his ear, pushing himself against Derek's back, his cock a little harder now, nudging its way between Derek's thighs.  
  
Finally it stopped, and Stiles pressed a kiss to his ear. "Perfect," he whispered.  
  
Derek relaxed back into him, exhausted again, and Stiles put an arm under his shoulder to guide him back to the bed.  
  
Their bodies hit the mattress together, and Stiles curled up against Derek's side. It was satisfying to smell their scents mingling, mixed sweat and come and Stiles's oils and herbs. He nosed against him a little, drinking it in sleepily.  
  
Stiles reached a hand out to the bedside table and grabbed the last empty vial, tossing it onto the sheets beside them. Then he snuggled back up to Derek, one hand stretched over his chest, caressing it with his fingertips, sometimes stopping to gently rub his thumb across a nipple. His hand was warm, and every time he pressed down, kneading the flesh of Derek's chest, it tingled a little.  
  
"I don't know much about your pack," he said quietly as Derek drifted again, more than half asleep. "Just that it's small, especially considering how powerful your family is."  
  
Usually a comment like that would have had Derek tense and angry, ready to attack, but his body was soft and pliant under Stiles's touch and the low, soothing whisper of his words. "I bet that's hard for you, Derek. It must make you anxious, desperate to strengthen the pack, to surround yourself with family again. To make yourself safe, and to keep them safe." The tingling was growing more intense, but Derek was still too loose and relaxed to feel concerned.  
  
"Born wolves are stronger than bitten ones, aren't they?" Stiles whispered. "That's what you need. Pups. A safe den. It must ache, having to go through the motions of an office job, dressed up in a suit and tie, playing at being human, when all the time your wolf is whimpering for breeding, for a new, strong pack of its own . . ."  
  
His chest was warm and swollen under Stiles's clever, probing fingers. And when Stiles's hot mouth closed over his nipple without warning and _sucked_ , Derek choked out a quiet moan.  
  
"No," he whispered. "Please, no." It was too much, too intense, the empty ache beneath his breastbone, the yearning for a strong, healthy pack, a family of his own, just like Stiles had said. And now the steady suck of a hungry mouth, trying to take something from him. "No, don't."  
  
Stiles released his nipple and brushed his wet lips across the hot nub of flesh, pulling another whimper out of Derek. "Let go," he said. "Just relax, Derek. You're safe here, nothing can go wrong. I'll protect you, you'll protect your cubs, keep them safe from everything. You have to take care of them."  
  
The words filled him with a spreading warmth, defusing the cold, empty ache, and making him push up against Stiles's mouth, offering himself. He could feel Stiles's lips curve in a smile as he closed his lips tightly around Derek's nipple again.  
  
Each pull of Stiles's mouth made the warmth inside him grow, and he could feel the tingling heat gathering again. Stiles lifted a hand to cup him, squeezing gently, and then gave a hard suck. A little stream of liquid leaked out of him and into Stiles's mouth. With a triumphant moan, Stiles pulled off and squeezed Derek's nipple between his fingers, carefully working the drips of milk into the little bottle.  
  
Stiles alternated between his mouth and his fingers, making the pearls of liquid well up over and over again, until Derek was milked dry.  
  
Derek watched muzzily as Stiles finally smoothed a hand across his chest and sat up. He screwed the vial shut and held his prize up for a second, turning it over and over between his fingers.  
  
"Wow," he breathed out, then turned to look down at Derek, smiling. "Thank you," he said, and his eyes were shining.  
  
Satisfied, Derek curled up and let his eyes fall shut.  
  
\---  
  
The morning after the party, Derek woke up strangely sore, but feeling light and content. Had to be the relief from finally closing the merger. Even Peter's sketchy idea of entertainment hadn't been able to ruin things. In a couple of days Laura would be home, and the stress of running the company would be back on his Alpha's shoulders, where it belonged.  
  
It screwed with his head, having to be in charge of things.  
  
He stretched out, reveling in the feeling of warmth. It was technically a workday, but all he had were another few interviews for Laura's assistant, and those weren't until the afternoon. Peter could manage things at the office until he got in. Yeah, he could totally take another hour, he thought, rolling over and letting his half-hard cock rub against the sheets.  
  
Peter wasn't happy to see him when he finally came in around noon, crooking a sarcastic eyebrow and making a comment about the flexibility of professionals. What? Derek didn't know what the hell Peter was talking about half the time.  
  
The first two kids who showed up for the assistant position were awful, stuttering and nervous. Laura would have eaten both of them alive. Derek just shook them up a little and sent them on their way.  
  
But something about the 3:30 interview was different. The humorous glint in his eyes, maybe. Or the way his fingers gripped Derek's as they shook hands. "Mr. Hale. It's a pleasure. Thank you for the interview."  
  
"Welcome," Derek said. He looked down the impressive resume on the desk in front of him. "To be honest, I'm not even going to try to pronounce your first name. Is there something else you prefer to be called?"  
  
"Stiles is fine," the boy said, and smiled.  
  
"Stiles," Derek repeated. It felt good in his mouth, right somehow. "You can call me Derek."  
  
"All right," said Stiles. "I will."

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is a magic user who uses his night-job as a pole dancer to put people in a trance and get their blood or whatever else he needs for his spells. He puts Derek under, and then takes advantage of him sexually and physically. Derek is never in pain or distress, but he can't consent, and doesn't remember anything afterward.
> 
> The bloodplay is brief and non-graphic. The watersports and male lactation are more involved.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] To Get Used By You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/890288) by [Jinxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy)




End file.
